The Darkener
by Forever Jake
Summary: One day I will go back and finish this. Maybe. A couple chapters about Tichondrius the dreadlord, before he became high up in the Legion hierarchy.
1. Scene I

Void Land was not a natural world. Strictly speaking, it was not a world at all, but merely a conglomerated field power and matter that had been slowly pulled together over the eons from various corners of... well, not of the world, for Void Land was outside the world. Of the nether, then. For that is of course what Void Land was - the center of the Twisting Nether.  
  
The Twisting Nether is one of two common realms of existence - reality and nether. (The Twisting Nether was naturally the latter of the two, hence its name, which was attached to it some time a go by some fuddled seer - probably an orc - who vaguely saw it as 'twisting'.) The nether is a vast expanse that exists between the myriad worlds, wherein reality occurs. The nether has no top, bottom, edges or middles, and it is the sort of place where one could wander for lifetimes and never reach an edge (because there aren't any) yet still cover its entire span in a week and a half's hike.  
  
And Void Land was its center. (This is, of course, metaphorically speaking, since physically, it no more has a center than it has edges.)  
  
Void Land was an anomaly in the nether, but that fact did not make it stand out. The nether is full of anomalies, and may in fact, have nothing else in it. What made Void Land stand out is that it was one of the very few places in the nether to be inhabited. This is not to say that the worlds that dotted the nether are not inhabited, for most of them are, at any one time, but the nether itself is rather sparse.  
  
Void Land was not so sparse (hence the anomaly). Its population was even more intriguing. (Not the numbers, of course, the people - if they could be called that.)  
  
Void Land was populated by demons. (Some mortals have taken this information to mean that Void Land is Hell. This is probably untrue. The existence of a Hell would mean the existence of a Heaven, and thus far there has been no evidence of one.)  
  
On one particular day, one particular demon was steadily beating his wings as he soared above the parapets of Void Land's urban areas. Few demons actually used their wings for anything more than intimidation, and in the harsh atmosphere and harsher reality of a real world, it would likely be impossible, but Tichondrius had long ago put his own leathery extremities to use. Tichondrius was always about putting something to use. That was simply the way he worked. In this case, he could always teleport himself, but he found flying to be generally less taxing, even refreshing at times. So he flew.  
  
He bucked and dived towards a purple-colored grove in one of the various World Parks that dotted the landscape - netherscape - and gently alighted on what would appear to be a dovecote. There were of course no doves, as no dove would ever survive in the nether. In fact, most of the elements in the World Parks were fabricated, from the purple plants to the wood of the dovecote, as nothing grew in the nether, and most things pillaged from a world would not survive.  
  
At the far end of the grove, another creature stirred. This was Mannoroth, a great beast of a demon, supported by four tree-trunk legs and sporting a mammoth pair of arms that forever gripped an immense, double-edged blade of some metal substance. He looked vaguely as if someone had set out trying to make a centaur, and for budget reasons, had substituted an elephant for the horse and a crocodile for the man. Mannoroth's kin were officially called Pit Lords, in reference to the caves and chasms in which they once lived. Few actually called them this, for the Pit Lords viewed their ancestral home with pride, and found the term 'pit' to be demeaning.  
  
Tichondrius doubted Mannoroth had noted his descent, for he had made no noise and Mannoroth was facing away from him. Tichondrius himself would have likely noted the subtle changes in the electricity of the air which announced another's arrival, but he didn't think the great Pit Lord one for subtlety.  
  
Tichondrius dropped from the dovecote roof to the ground, intentionally making a noise as his talons scraped the dirt. Tichondrius, like the rest of his race, the nathrezim dreadlords, was skilled at stealth and could have crept all the way up the Pit Lord if he had wanted to. What he wanted today, however, was the large demon's attention, and the fabricated noise attained that for him. The Pit Lord spun around suddenly, whirling his bladed weapon in a wide arc in the space over Tichondrius' head. Had Tichondrius been a foot or so taller, he would no longer be with us, and the story would have ended rather quickly.  
  
Tichondrius now stood directly in front of the mammoth Pit Lord. The nathrezim was greatly dwarfed next to Mannoroth's titanic figure; Tichondrius was seven feet at best, and his companion stood two or three stories. This, however, did not faze the smaller demon, who was used to dealing with being larger - and stupider - than himself. He simply stepped back (in case the big bloke wanted a second swing), and spoke.  
  
"A bit touchy today, aren't we, Mannoroth?" Tichondrius waved his clawed hand as if to say 'down here'. The Pit Lord blinked at the tiny nathrezim in surprise. He had been expecting somewhat of a larger threat.  
  
"Tichondriusss, the dreadlord," the great demon hissed. "I have heard of you."  
  
"And I you, Great One," Tichondrius calmly intoned. "I know much about your... exploits on Draenor."  
  
A low growl emanated from the Pit Lord's toothy maw. "And what exssactly do you know, dreadlord?" He spat this last word, as if it was some grave indictment. Tichondrius pretended not to notice.  
  
"Actually, I'm afraid I know only the generalities - you, ah... empowered the orcs, set them against the Azerothiens, and they failed their task." This was a lie. Tichondrius' spies were everywhere; he knew the orcs' history and Mannoroth's involvement in it better than the backs of his own clawed hands, and had even been present (albeit in disguise) at several of the major battles. He knew of the Legion's recruitment of the orc warlock, Gul'dan; he knew of the horrifically unsuccessful 'Orc Wars' in Azeroth; and he knew of the final, catastrophic defeat of the orcs' last Warchief, Ner'zhul, just days ago on the orcish world of Draenor. Lastly, he knew the dark, coveted secret of the orcs' ferocity - that to create the perfect warrior race, Mannoroth had spilled his own burning blood into the power- hungry orcs' veins. Tichondrius was quite pleased in having found out this last little tidbit, for he had gone to great lengths to discover it.  
  
Mannoroth was staring at him with what the dreadlord believed was disdain - although with a face like Mannoroth's, it could just as easily be nausea, or even joy. When a being was that ugly, it was just hard to tell.  
  
"You know nothing," Mannoroth accused.  
  
"Perhaps you might enlighten me, then." There was a pause.  
  
"What would you like to know?"  
  
This could go on for hours, Tichondrius knew. Though not brilliant conversationalists, Pit Lords were more than decent at being stubborn, and Tichondrius simply did not have the patience to run so many laps around this particular thorny bush. Also, although the big oaf Mannoroth didn't know it yet, neither of them had an overly large amount of time. Yes, he thought, it was time to cut straight to the point.  
  
"I want to know how you plan to endear yourself to Our Lord Archimonde again now that your precious orcs have failed him." It was plain that the statement had caught the Pit Lord by surprise. Few in the Legion even knew that the war had come to Draenor, let alone that it had been lost. The general consensus among the troops was that the 'lackeys war' as they called it was still in full swing in Azeroth, and that their own invasion would be ordered any time now. Tichondrius, however, had not gotten to his place in life without learning how to know what was going on.  
  
Mannoroth had recovered and was asking many questions at once, obviously trying to regain the information advantage having suddenly realized he never quite had it in the first place.  
  
"What do you mean? How do you know about that? How isss it any of your busssinesss? What do you want from me?"  
  
"Calm down, Mannoroth, my friend," the crafty nathrezim said. "We don't want to attract attention, do we?" At this, the larger being looked hastily around; he was unaware that Tichondrius had earlier had the area cleared of any minor demons who might have overheard.  
  
"What do you want?" the Pit Lord tried to whisper. It came out instead as a barely-intelligible wheeze.  
  
"Why, only to serve you, of course." Tichondrius knew he had that elder demon hooked. The fat demon would do whatever Tichondrius asked to keep his defeat quiet. As for protecting the Pit Lord from the wrath of the Legion's commander, Archimonde, Tichondrius doubted if Archimonde would truly act out against Mannoroth. The dreadlord didn't doubt that Archimonde was powerful enough to destroy Mannoroth in battle, but the combat would leave him a drained and easy target for a would-be upstart. There would be scapegoats when news of the events on Draenor inevitably escaped, but whether the great beast knew it or not, Mannoroth was not in danger.  
  
"I was thinking about what chaos would unfold in the Legion's ranks when... ah, if news of the orcs' defeat filtered down. I was thinking, somebody ought to get a sort of armed force together to maintain Our Lord Archimonde's control of what could become a volatile situation. I'm surprised Our Lord hasn't thought of it himself." Actually, Tichondrius didn't doubt Archimonde already had a similar thing in mind. Still, it would look decent enough coming from a pair of middle-class demonic subjects.  
  
"Why don't you sssuggessst it to him then," the Pit Lord snapped impatiently. Obviously he though Tichondrius was looking for a demonic army to lead in rebellion, and Mannoroth wanted no part. While the idea was intriguing, Tichondrius was not enough of a fool to try it.  
  
"Oh, I don't know. I'm only a lowly dreadlord, as you've so eloquently pointed out. I very much doubt a being of my miniscule rank could hope to win an audience with His Greatness. Now, you, on the other hand..."  
  
Mannoroth was wearing an expression of extreme discomfort. He obviously disliked having to decide between letting his 'secret' slip and attaching his name to a possible rebellion, either of which could spell the end of his career - or his life. He shifted slightly, as Tichondrius imagined him racking his tiny brain for a third option.  
  
"Now, now, my dear Mannoroth, don't look so distraught. I'm not asking you for a fortune in gold, am I? Am I? All I'm asking is that you get me an audience with Our Lord Archimonde and help me pitch the idea." Mannoroth shook his scaly mane. He obviously thought the dreadlord intended insurrection. "Listen, I'm not some upstart looking for control of the Legion; I'm a simple, low-level demon who wants to advance his career. Just introduce me as your, ah... assistant, and let me to the talking. It'll be over before you know it."  
  
The Pit Lord tilted back and forth as he struggled to decide. Tichondrius smiled slightly, imperceptibly. He knew Mannoroth would bite. In all fairness, it probably appeared a lesser risk than falling into Archimonde's disfavor. Tichondrius would get his audience, and things would begin to move. All it would take was time...  
  
*** 


	2. Scene II

It was a week later. Mannoroth stood in Archimonde's antechamber, obviously uncomfortable. He shifted and paced, and absently scratched various body parts. Tichondrius sat on the floor nearby. Though the dreadlord appeared calm, his stomach was a light as Mannoroth's seemed to be. Neither demon's nervousness was unjustified; Archimonde was a volatile being, and it would not bode well for either of them if Tichondrius' plan did not work the way it was supposed to.  
  
Still, Tichondrius thought to himself, the brute could be doing a better job of hiding it. Allowing one's emotions to show was not a trait the dreadlords prized, and Tichondrius had long ago learned to mask his feelings - an ability the mammoth Pit Lord did not seem to have picked up. He's practically announcing defeat already, walking around like that, and the battle's not even begun!  
  
Of course, the dreadlord realized, that just makes me look more in control by contrast.  
  
The door at the head of the chamber creaked open. A pair of infernal guards stepped out, their eyeless expressions unreadable. The great burning golems took their positions on either side of the open doorway and stopped. It was time to enter.  
  
Tichondrius stood. The Pit Lord had stopped pacing and was ambling towards the large portal. Tichondrius began to follow suit, then leapt into the air suddenly, gliding past Mannoroth to enter just ahead of him - he wanted to be the first one Archimonde saw. The nathrezim landed on the cold stone tile just as the great door closed again behind his bloated companion. Tichondrius looked around.  
  
The chamber was short and narrow, but the empty space above extended a vast distance, and the ceiling beyond was imperceptible from the ground. Perhaps Archimonde likes to fly as well, Tichondrius thought. He filed the information away. As for Archimonde himself, the great eredar sat upon a squat throne of some bonelike material at the opposite end of the room.  
  
"Approach." Archimonde's voice echoed through the chamber. His two guests bowed and obeyed.  
  
"Archimonde-" Mannoroth began, but he was interrupted by the elder demon's booming voice.  
  
"You will address me as 'Master' or 'Lord', Mannoroth. You are no longer my equal."  
  
"Yesss, of courssse, Massster. I, eh- well, you know me, and thisss isss my asssissstant, Tich-"  
  
"I know who you are. Tell me what it is you want, before I lose my patience with you."  
  
"Yesss, Lord." Mannoroth was sweating. I was right, Tichondrius thought. The ass knows just how thin his credibility is. "We - I mean I - I thought of something to do about the orc problem."  
  
"Mannoroth, don't you think your involvement with the orcs has cost us enough already?" Archimonde's tone was severe. Mannoroth looked to Tichondrius for help, but the dreadlord pretended not to notice.  
  
"I, uh," the Pit Lord faltered. "It'sss, uh, not exssactly about the orcsss themssselvesss, Lord. I just thought that, uh, something ought to be done for-"  
  
"For when the news leaks out about your failure?" Mannoroth nodded gratefully, as if he thought Archimonde had decided to grant his request after all. Fool, Tichondrius thought.  
  
"Let me guess," Archimonde continued, as Mannoroth's foolish grin evaporated again. "You want me to form some extra demonic force to contain the Legion's rage when they find out? And of course, you want me to put you in charge of it, when it was you who caused this problem in the first place?" Archimonde's speech had become a bellowing cry, and he stood suddenly. Mannoroth squealed and cowered, squeezing his eyes shut as if expecting some painful attack. When no such attack came, he cautiously opened one eye, then the other.  
  
"Tell me," Archimonde said, his voice soft again. "Tell me, Mannoroth, from where is this force you envision to come?" Mannoroth blinked, then opened his vast mouth, but no sound came out. He looked again at Tichondrius, but the tiny dreadlord again pretended not to notice.  
  
"You did not think of that, did you? You did not think!" Mannoroth took a step back, naturally expecting Archimonde to strike out at him at any time. "That is why we even have this problem, you stinking waste of flesh! Because YOU DID NOT THINK!" The Pit Lord now cowered in the corner by the doorway, his bloated hands shielding his face.  
  
"GET OUT!" Archimonde bellowed. Mannoroth did not have to be told twice. He scurried (if it was possible for something so disgustingly large to scurry) out of the door, so grateful for being allowed to leave - alive - that he failed to notice that his dreadlord companion did not follow him.  
  
Tichondrius waited a few moments before he spoke for the sounds of Mannoroth's hasty retreat to fade away down the corridor outside. The Infernal servants closed the doors again, and Archimonde sat down on his throne. All was silent. It appeared that the eredar had also forgotten about the tiny nathrezim that stood before him. The dreadlord took a breath and stepped forward.  
  
"I said get out," Archimonde said, without looking at him.  
  
"Your pardon, Master, but I believed you had only dismissed Lord Mannoroth."  
  
"You entered with him, did you not, dreadlord? Should you not leave with him, then?" Tichondrius' levity seemed to be lost on the elder demon. He tried again.  
  
"In a fashion, Lord. I prefer to think of it as him entering with me."  
  
"Do you, now?" Though Archimonde no doubt fought to conceal it, Tichondrius thought he saw a shadow of amusement creep across the eredar's face.  
  
"Yes, Master. That proposal was actually mine, not his. And I daresay I could have handled it better."  
  
"And how, exactly, would you have handled it better?"  
  
"I wouldn't have made his mistakes, Lord. He hissed. He sputtered. He was impolite, forgetful, impractical, disrespectful and inarticulate. Plus, it's his fault there's even a problem, so naturally you would never trust him to try and fix it."  
  
Archimonde nodded absently. "What is you name, nathrezim?"  
  
"Tichondrius, Master."  
  
"Tichondrius..." Archimonde paused, as if searching his mind, then said, "I don't recall hearing your name before, nathrezim Tichondrius."  
  
"That is because you probably have never heard it, Lord. I have done little that would be of notice to one such as you."  
  
"Yet you wish to lead this... 'demon guard' of Mannoroth's?"  
  
"Please, Master - of mine. It was my idea. And yes, I would."  
  
"Tell me, nathrezim Tichondrius, why I should choose you for this task."  
  
"First, Lord, because it was my idea. And second, because I can answer your question."  
  
Archimonde raised an eyebrow. "And what question is that, nathrezim Tichondrius?"  
  
"Why, the one you asked Mannoroth, of course. I can tell you where the force will come from."  
  
Both of Archimonde's eyebrows were raised now. Tichondrius definitely had the eredar's attention. "Alright," he said. "Alright. Tell me where I will get the souls I need to summon such a force."  
  
"From the orcs, Master. They lie scattered across the nether by their crude portals, easily snatched and harnessed. Their fury is as potent as Mannoroth's. They shall be the perfect servants for you."  
  
Archimonde was smiling; he was obviously impressed with Tichondrius' ingenuity. "Of course. The orcs... why, they were right in front of Mannoroth's face. I'm surprised he didn't think of it himself."  
  
"Well, you must excuse him for that, Lord." Tichondrius spread his clawed hands in jest. "His face is so large... and that's really quite a large area to search for an idea."  
  
Archimonde chuckled. Perfect, Tichondrius thought.  
  
*** 


	3. Scene III

Tichondrius was once again borne upon the harsh, stinging winds of Void Land, but this time the skies around him were dark, hiding him from prying eyes below. It was not truly dusk, as Void Land was not a world and therefore had no sun, but the gleaming world of Azeroth had dipped below the chain of unnatural mountains that ringed the home of the Legion, and with it, their most prominent source of light. Even if someone could have seen him, they would have likely mistaken him in the twilight for one of the many gargoyle races that swelled the Legion's ranks. The lithe nathrezim glided and flitted through the dark and horrid clouds, sighting at last his destination: a lone spire, slightly obscured through the murk and fog. He banked to the left, adjusting his direction to point himself directly towards the spire and folding back his wings so as to sharpen his dive.  
  
The spire was something Tichondrius prided himself on. It was as perfect a residence for him as he could have dreamed, as it provided a quick, clandestine window to the skies and as much room to brood and plot as the young nathrezim needed. It had also been most difficult to attain - Tichondrius had been forced to remove its two former occupants himself, as neither had seen fit to surrender it willingly. It was all for the best, Tichondrius thought to himself afterwards. Now no one knows I am here.  
  
Actually, that was not entirely true. There were a handful of beings who knew the whereabouts of the dreadlord's abode, but he was certain enough that none of them would prove a threat to his plans. Should he change his mind on that fact, he mused, he could also end said threat quite effectively.  
  
The demon reached the top of the spire and alighted on a narrow outcropping of stone-like material which protruded from the spire's otherwise unremarkable cone summit. He slid through an equally narrow portal in the side of the cone, and landed on the floor of his apartment with no sound save the soft click of his talons scraping the stone.  
  
"Light," he said. Magical wards placed around the perimeter of the room glowed to life at his command, illuminating the apartment. It was a decidedly bare residence: a round cot of sorts lay against the far wall; a shallow pool of clear liquid was in the center of the floor. The rest of the room was empty. Tichondrius did not care for decoration or accessory, only necessity. He rarely slept, and the cot sufficed when he did; like others of his race, he needed not eat; and the pool was not for bathing.  
  
He approached the pool, and bent over onto his knees. He dipped a long, clawed finger into the liquid and stirred clockwise slowly. The pool turned from its calm, deep blue color to a fiery red, and images began to appear: Archimonde, alone in his throne room; a pair of dreadlords conversing in a dim corridor; an eredar warlock, deep in an incantation; and a group of tiny, impish creatures devouring a corpse. After a few moments, satisfied with what he had seen, Tichondrius began to stir in the opposite direction. The images vanished, and the pool began to return to its previous deep blue.  
  
Suddenly he stopped. Something in the pool had caught his eye. He stirred furiously, clockwise again, and the image became clearer. It was Mannoroth, and he was addressing half a dozen or so of the imp-like beings Tichondrius had seen earlier. Now this is interesting, the dreadlord thought. He could make out the demons' words now. He stopped stirring, and the image settled in his mind.  
  
"Then find them," Mannoroth was saying. "We cannot afford to lossse them, not with what they know."  
  
"Yes, master," the imps squeaked. "We will find the orcs, wherever they run!"  
  
"Of course you will..." Mannoroth seemed as though he was going to say more on the subject, but suddenly a strange expression crept across his face. "Go," he said, and the imps scurried away. When they were all out of sight, Mannoroth spoke loudly into the air.  
  
"Tichondriusss?" A chill went up the dreadlord's spine. "I know you are there, Tichondriusss..." Mannoroth intoned. This is not good, Tichondrius decided. No one had ever realized before that he was spying on them, let alone spoken back to him. No, this is definitely not good.  
  
"Tichondriusss, I am impressssed..." Mannoroth continued, his countenance growing happier and more malicious as he spoke. "A ssscrying pool... ssso that isss how you have been watching me... on Draenor..."  
  
Tichondrius did not answer. He was thinking as quickly as he could about what this meant, and what must be done now that he had been discovered. I can't use the scrying pool anymore... or the apartment...  
  
"I mussst compliment you, dreadlord... you had me worried with your... proposal..." I must leave... how much does he know? ...  
  
"To ussse me... to get to Archimonde... very... sssneaky..." Tichondrius eyed the window in the roof. His followers will be getting here soon, he realized. I better not be here when they arrive...  
  
"And the orcsss... right under my very nossse!..." So, Archimonde told him everything, Tichondrius thought. Well, now I know not to count on him. I've impressed the old warlock, but not won his confidence.  
  
"But now... you will not be there to rule them... ssso of courssse... Archimonde will choossse me again..." Tichondrius was wasting too much time. He had to get out of there. He stood and looked around the room for anything of value, anything he would want to take, but there of course was nothing. Now he was glad he never accessorized. He would have liked to unstir the pool before leaving, but there was no time. He cursed Mannoroth silently. The demons will see everything I've seen in the pool... no matter. It can't be helped. He cast one last look about the apartment, and leapt upwards through the hole in the ceiling.  
  
Outside, wind whipped the ledge. On the horizon, he could see an electrical storm brewing, and behind it, a wing of gargoyles heading vaguely in his direction. They must be Mannoroth's, he thought. He turned and faced the other way, towards the setting orb of Azeroth. He spread his wings and leapt from the ledge.  
  
Anetheron, he thought as he flew. An image of a younger dreadlord appeared in his mind. Anetheron, he thought again. The image in his mind blinked, and responded.  
  
Tichondrius? it asked.  
  
Yes. I need a favor.  
  
What is it, brother?  
  
Mannoroth has found my spire. I need somewhere to stay.  
  
There was a pause. I think I have somewhere you'll like, the other demon said after a few moments.  
  
Good. How do I get there?  
  
*** 


End file.
